


One scarred, one hollow

by Corinne K (Corinne_K)



Category: Bleach
Genre: F/M, Implied Kyouraku Shunsui/Ukitake Juushirou - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-27
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2019-03-24 22:30:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13820784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corinne_K/pseuds/Corinne%20K
Summary: Snippet of a night Juushiro spent at the fourth for reasons other than his illness. In the morning, bitter realizations sink in.





	1. Chapter 1

Late night at the fourth division quarters. The captain lets down her hair.

“Yashiru,” the man whispers, eyes locked on the contours of her body.

The woman freezes, still facing the mirror on her vanity. Slowly she turns to face the man lying on her bed. His white hair, a tone warmer under the lamplight, cascades down his bare chest. Her dark indigo sheets pool around his waist, invitingly. He looks at her fixedly, a defiant glint in those pretty green eyes.

With grace and elegance she stands up, lets her hair flow all around her. Her camisole drops to the floor like a whisper.

He parts his lips as if to finish his sentence, but thinks better of it when she kneels next to his sprawled figure and places a hand on his chest. The gesture is reminiscent of many healing sessions between them. He closes his eyes and exhales deeply. He wants to tell her how it thrills him to have these encounters, how _she_ thrills him like no other woman. Yashiru - her warrior name - is the only name that he can call her in times like these.

However, she is the one who speaks. She informs in a flat, clinical tone-

"It sleeps. We have some time."

A faint smile pulls at his lips when he hears her cold assessment. Better this than to have a fit mid-act and have her perform healing kido on him while he's still inside her, he reasons. Feeling bold, he raises one hand towards her, and places it over the scar on her sternum. One scarred, one hollow. At least in their imperfection, there is some form of communion between them, aside from the purely carnal.

And then, she does the unthinkable. She captures that hand in both of hers, brings it to her lips and begins to tenderly kiss the tip of each finger. When she's done with both his hands, she leans down and covers his lips with hers. He trembles. Heat pools at his loins and he is ready for her. He runs a finger between her thighs and finds that she is too. Her lips leave his and a torrent of luscious black hair brushes his face. He closes his eyes. Sight is superfluous when a rustle of sheets precedes the sensation of solid thighs pressing against his, and warm wetness descends upon him. For a moment they remain that way - engaged and entwined. Then, she clenches inside and begins to move. She fucks him relentlessly, engulfing him completely with each stroke. The Sereitei has been a place of solace for them both. They will die protecting it. But for now, as she dies on him for just a second, he pours what's left of him into her body.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update: I have edited these short few paragraphs endlessly. I am both bothered by their imperfection and convinced that this is the best piece of fanfic that I wrote to date. I have paired Jūshiro with a variety of people (because I love him that much!), but the thought of him and Unohana in these terms suddenly made so much sense to me. If anyone passes by and is in the mood to leave their impressions, do feel free!


	2. Chapter 2

The cold glow of dawn lit the room just enough for Jushiro to find his way back to where his clothes lay neatly folded. He could hear soft breathing. Warriors always have shallow sleep and when that condition defines their soul, they never sleep away from their weapon. True to that principle, the beautiful long sword called Minazuki lay by her side, her fingertips lightly touching the hilt.

In a ritual practised through the years, he put on the pieces of clothing that compose his uniform. He barely owned any other items of clothing, really. A few yukatas for the warm weather and when his condition made it indignant to wear the pristine white shirts of his shihakusho. He finally tucked his sword under his sash, a familiar weight over his hip, and began to walk out. It was a few steps from the door that it hit him that he would never see her again. His healer, his senpai. The woman who could beat him in battle and bend him in bed. He turned back, knelt by her side and touched her hair. A hand closed around his wrist and squeezed viciously.

“Leaving so soon?” She whispered, her eyes still closed.

“I have a long road to walk.”

Her eyes opened, blue calm, sharp as glass. There was a rustle of the covers and she was standing up beside him, then walking a few steps towards the small Chinese vanity, with its diminutive drawers and oval mirror. She took something from a drawer and walked those few steps back to him. 

“Retsu...” the name slipped his lips, with a flavor that was distinctly different from the one he had used last night. She placed a small vial on the palm of his hand, then closed his fingers around it.

“Take it when the time comes, but only if there is no other way. For a few minutes, no more than ten, it will dull all the pain in your body, but your mind will remain lucid. After that...” she trailed off.

“Thank you.”

He placed the vial in his sleeve and bowed to leave. It was goodbye, but it was her fate, not his, that bothered him. He paused, hesitated for one second, but finally decided-

“I will talk to Kyoraku. For once he is completely wrong. You can go to the battlefield. You and the Zaraki boy both can fight. You can teach him...”

Her hand stopped the stream of words from his mouth.

“You should know me better, Jūshirō. Would I follow an order from a kouhai if I didn’t have my reasons?”

She was right. It was Yamamoto, not his title, that kept the first kenpachi in self-restraint. Likewise, it was the order itself, and not Kyouraku’s new post, that granted her compliance. He left his shoulders slump and sighed into her fingers, still resting on his lips.

“Thank you,” she echoed, and a glimpse of wickedness grazed her expression. “He wouldn’t listen anyway. He never liked to share you.”

His brows rose and his eyes widened in shock. She laughed softly, finally bringing her hand from his mouth to hers.

“Go, Jūshirō, before I lock you up and prevent you from fulfilling your duty.”

Suddenly, from a place he could not pinpoint, came an irresistible urge to hold her. The thought itself was transgressive. You don’t hug the Kenpachi, you present yourself to her and let her do as she wishes. Through the years they had shared companionship and intimacy, but never the warm giddiness that he always felt with Shunsui, his eternal boyfriend. Nevertheless, his body lunged forward and his arms wrapped around her.

“Thank you, Thank you for everything. Every poultice, every infusion, every ointment, every night you welcomed me in your chambers. My long life, and all the pain... I couldn’t have endured it without you.”

She felt the warmth of his thin body against hers and a wave of humanity washed over her soul. Soon all that would be erased and she would revert to the monster she had once been. This was her last embrace, so she let herself melt into it for a fleeting moment. But that instant swiftly passed and she was pushing him back, a glint of ice and cruelty settling in.

“Jūshirō, go.”

He obeyed. He had to. Once again, he bowed deeply.

“Goodbye, Retsu.”


End file.
